Forever
by Spinyfruit
Summary: Francis loved them all. Jeanne was only one of many. There were other leaders, artists, poets, writers, philosophers, people…but eventually, they all died, and he had to live on. – Historical!Hetalia, oneshot, no pairings. Rated for dark themes and attempted suicide.


_Warning for dark themes and suicide attempts. _

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><p><strong>Forever<strong>

_"__The sadness will last forever." – recorded as Vincent Van Gogh's last words. _

~/~

The first time I did it was after Jeanne.

We didn't have world meetings back then, I don't think anyone ever noticed. Arthur didn't, of course. We weren't on speaking terms after Jeanne anyway, so he wasn't around, but Antonio couldn't tell either. It was a relief, I suppose. I wouldn't have wanted to explain myself to anyone anyway. But at the same time, after I'd been dead for half a day, it felt unreal to continue smiling and laughing like I had been a small while ago. It didn't hurt, it didn't ache, it just made me feel empty.

But then history goes on.

New people were born. New, promising, beautiful people were born. Italy entered the Renaissance, and art was reinvigorated. It seemed so hopeful, that people could create such beautiful things. Giotto, Botticelli, Raphael, Michelangelo, Titian: I cried for them all. It pained me that they had to die. At times I wish it were me instead of them, it seemed so unfair. They made something that would last, that was worthwhile, that made people feel, but I couldn't do any of that. I could only watch and admire.

Leonardo's death might have been the hardest, since he died in my own home. The king enjoyed talking to him, learning from him, and hearing his thoughts, but if I had had my way, he wouldn't have been allowed to stay at all. I loved Leonardo and everything he did, but he was old, and I knew death was only a matter of time. I didn't want to see it. Not him. His mind was so curious, so eager, he could've lived forever and not wasted a moment. But all the same, he died, and I was forced to witness.

While the king's attendants fretted over him and prepared him for a funeral, I ducked away and ran. I ran hard, fast, with a racing heart and panting breath. I didn't know where I was going, I just needed to escape. Everyone was dying again. And I had gotten attached again. It's worse than the Black Plague, at least I was sick then too. At least everything was dismal and insufferable. I hate this because everything had been so wonderful, and the people so beautiful, ending it is just too tragic.

So I locked myself in my chambers and found that knife I kept hidden in my nightstand. It was sunny, there were birds chirping, but it just made me cry all the more. It hurt because it was so ephemeral. Days don't matter, it'll be night in a few hours. Birds, butterflies, children, animals, people…They all grow old, they all die. Why couldn't I just die with them?

I pressed the metal deep in my skin and dragged it far. I did the same to my other arm. Then I breathed. This was perhaps my stupidest attempt, and in retrospect, I can agree it was too rash, too naïve.

I thought dying this way would be quicker than drowning, but I was wrong. I don't think I died at all. I fell to the floor, and laid there almost paralyzed for hours, an uncountable amount of time. My eyes were closed, but I heard everything.

And at some point, there were voices. French voices: feminine and masculine echoing around me. I was touched, someone's hand grazed over my face and I heard a distinctly English voice.

"Francis, what the bloody hell have you done now?"

It almost made me smile.

I don't know why he was there. Maybe he had scheduled to stop by and it simply slipped my mind. He's always been the punctual one, not me.

They needed to stitch me up to stop the bleeding, it was too deep to close on its own, but I don't think I would have ever died. I would have stayed like that. Waiting faithfully in vain hopes that it might end. But instead, I was revived, and eventually I had to open my eyes. I must have been disoriented for a part, maybe I even drifted off to sleep; because when I woke up I was in my bed, looking blankly at my white canopy. I heard some incessant tapping from the corner and I turned to the side. Arthur was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, looking marvelously uncomfortable in his sixteenth century fashion. The tight britches never really suited him.

I smiled and said, "_Bonjour, Angleterre_. To what do I owe this pl –"

"Cut the crap, Francis! What in God's name was that all about?" He interrupted, loud, red-eyed and strangely anxious.

I blinked lazily and sat up in the bed. "Honestly, I don't know what you're talking about. You're going to have to be much more specific."

"Damn it all. You know exactly what I'm talking about," he yelled, and I remember cringing at the decibel. He's always been rather loud, but that was a surprise. "I want to know why guards had to beat down your locked door and your pretty, French maids had to find your body cold in a pool of your own blood!"

I looked at him carelessly, accustomed to brushing him off at this point. "Oh, it doesn't really matter now, does it? Look," I pulled up one of my billowy white sleeves and showed him the perfect, white skin. "Nothing there. It's all in the past, no? Now how about we go get some breakfast?" I slid out from under the covers, draped to the knee in the loose, white fabric.

As I tried to make my escape to wash my face, I was suddenly grabbed by the wrist and pulled back.

Arthur looked at me fiercely, his eyes frosty green, and his lips in a firm line. In a slow, deliberate voice, he said, "This is an accident, understand? I don't want to hear from anyone, country or human, that you tried to…" his voice trailed off, because he's too proper to even utter the word. Then he breathed and continued, "You are in no way allowed to dabble with this sort of thing any longer. Promise me."

I smiled in amusement, but tried to keep my voice genuine. "Of course."

He still didn't let go. "I'm serious, Francis."

"As am I, _Angleterre_," I said and finally he loosened his grip. "Now why don't we have breakfast? The chef has been trying some delicious new things lately. You should try and learn from him. Already centuries old and you still haven't learned to cook. _Mon Dieu_."

He let me go, and we had breakfast. His eyes were tense, but slowly he returned to his self, and it all seemed normal. We were able to talk, joke, argue, all as usual, and we never talked about it again. He thought we didn't need to.

Wars came next. That distracted me. I hated wars, all wars. It didn't matter with whom they were with – Antonio, Italy, the Holy Roman Empire, Arthur – they all hurt, they all felt pointless, and they were all numbing. I didn't think about dying because I already felt dead. There was nothing beautiful or wonderful to make me think that I might still be alive. In war, it was all too bleak. And when one ended, another began. Then we had multiple at a time. Losing was horrible, so many of my people died for nothing. But victory wasn't much better. People always died, but when we won, it was those in charge that tried to make me feel better. Kings are so blindingly optimistic. They don't know how temporary they are, how temporary their victories are.

But sometimes they can be entertaining. Louis XIV was like a light after an eternity in darkness. He was silly and broke the bank on more than one occasion, but at least he made something other than war. Finally, there was Versailles, there was art, there were salons, there philosophers. The country came alive, and so did I. I forgot how fun it could be when people were trying to create and learn.

"Don't get too attached, Francis," he said, straightforward and cold as ever.

I looked at him over my porcelain teacup. He hadn't touched his food at all, and was still sitting arms-crossed as Italy and Antonio were enjoying the small brunch I'd ordered for them. I just finished gushing about Descartes and Pascal and Molière: all about their accomplishments and futures. I hadn't realized Arthur was still watching me with a careful eye after all these years.

"Ve~ what are you talking about England? I think it's sweet how close big brother Francis is with his people. He's friends with everyone," Italy said, unintentionally strengthening Arthur's gaze.

"_Si_, I have to agree. My boss keeps me so busy, I hardly get the chance," Antonio added with a sigh.

Arthur still stared at me, waiting only for my response.

I smiled. "I'm as free as a butterfly, _Angleterre_. Rest assured."

What a lie. I said it easily, but it couldn't have been further from the truth. I've never been free, I've always been attached. In a way, I'm married to every person, and that's why it breaks my heart when they die.

Briefly, as I dangled my legs from the top of the Louvre, I wondered if anyone else was affected. Does anyone else care that these people die? What about Feliciano? He's lost countless artists, countless philosophers, writers, poets…Does he feel this pain? Does he ache for all of the people who deserved to live forever, and miss them when they're already long since passed? And England? Does he care at all? Sometimes I wonder if he has a heart, or if he just writes their deaths away as documents and something to be recorded, and never cries for them, because they're mortal and so easily lost and replaced.

If he thinks that, he's wrong. They can't be replaced. There will never be another Jeanne d'Arc, another Girardon, or Rousseau. They're gone forever.

And I push myself off the ledge to see if I can join them.

The next thing I know I'm in my bed, alone in my room. A maid comes and drops some food off, smiling and asking how I'm doing. She doesn't ask about what happened, but I tell her I slipped anyway, and I assume that's what she tells everyone else. And they all easily believe it.

Everything had already slipped back into routine when I received an announcement of a visitor. I was dining with the king and his family, having a pleasant conversation with the little_ dauphin_, and Arthur appeared.

I laughed at the sight. No matter the fashion of my country, it always seemed unsuitable for him. The coat, the cane, the britches, it was too much, and he didn't seem pleased at my reaction. Though he didn't seem pleased at all to tell the truth.

He asked if he could talk in private with me, and reluctantly, I agreed. Then, when we were alone in my chambers, he had be held at the wall his hand gripping my collar.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You jumped off the blasted Louvre?"

For a moment I was surprised. I didn't think he would find out, or at least see through me so quickly. But then I sighed dramatically and tried to put on airs. "Oh, so you've heard about that. My maids can be such gossips. I'm sure they forgot to mention it was raining, and I slipped. They can be so overdramatic."

"I heard that rubbish story. I didn't believe a word of it. God, Francis, why did you do it? Your people are doing fine. Your royalty isn't fighting for once. You're not in a war. There's no reason. It doesn't make sense," he said, serious and logical as ever.

I sighed and looked away. There's no point in trying to explain this to him. He wouldn't understand. At this point he's become more uncouth than usual and toying around with his new boats. Beating up Antonio was too much fun for him, how can he understand the mourning of a simple, ephemeral human.

"If you're just trying to die…You can't," he added, his voice a bit unsteady at the end. Almost unsure. "You know that, right? You can't die. This is all pointless. It's needless trouble for everyone. What does your king think of all this? Isn't this a bit selfish of you? You're traumatizing these poor people."

Pointless. Selfish. That's what I feel like when I'm living. There's no point of me. Why do I have to live when everyone else has to die?

"Francis? Damn it, are you even listening to me," he was shouting at this point, and I felt his hand grip my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"I know," I said.

His face scrunched in confusion. "What?"

"I know I can't die."

His eyes shifted from wide to blazing and he stared hard at me. "Then why?"

"I just want to," I admitted simply.

I know what expression I had, but Arthur looked absolutely horrified. He let go of my collar and I stepped away to fix my shirt.

It was silent for a long time, Arthur must have been thinking hard, he tends to rehearse what he says. After five minutes I presumed he was editing. And finally, he said, "I'm not going to let you."

I rolled my eyes. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he insisted, voice louder than before. "If you try this again, I'm going to –"

"What?" I asked, whipping around to stare him straight in the eye. "What can you do that I can't? Are you going to torture me? _Kill me_? If that's the case, than be my guest."

He flinched, and his face paled in insult. Good, I thought. I wanted to hurt him.

I opened the door and walked out, hoping Arthur wouldn't follow me.

He did.

"Damn it, Francis. Don't just walk away! Maybe we can talk about this, figure it out! Maybe we can find a reason why. Perhaps it's something to do with your economy. Or those wars. Or the religion. You've been a mess about that for a while. Maybe it's just getting to your head!"

I stopped, and pressed my nails hard into my palms to keep my voice calm. I can't let him know, I can't let him see just how broken I am. He doesn't have the right to know this.

I suck in a breath and turn around; face smooth, lips up, and voice ready. "_Angleterre_, you really should just listen to me. I'm fine. Other than a mild headache from your yelling, I've never been better. Now," I gestured to a few guards who walked up and stood near Arthur. "I have to talk to the king. They'll show you out. _Avoir_!"

I faced forward and started walking again, deliberately ignoring Arthur's curses. He could shout and curse all he wanted, it wouldn't make a difference.

But of course, we ran into each other again. Sometimes among others, sometimes on our own, but every time he made sure to ask pointed questions. Something like, "made any new friends lately?" Or, "how's the economy?" And eventually, "how's the revolution coming along?"

The last question was hard to answer, but at least it was in a letter. Even Arthur didn't feel very comfortable visiting me at that time. And I didn't blame him. The whole situation was terrible, gruesome. I had no sides of course, among everyone. I don't think I agreed with a single person, I was crying and pleading that maybe we could go back to how things were and stop the bloodshed. It didn't seem worth it after a while. I forgot why it was happening at all. Everyone was dying, and it wasn't even war. Physically, I was already in pain. The turmoil from so many opposing groups took its toll on me, I was aching from the beginning. But after the king and Marie, and hundreds of others began dying, I was crying endlessly.

There was nothing I could do but sit and watch. That's what hurt the most.

One day, I couldn't take it anymore. I ran away. I stole a horse, and I took off to the countryside, escaping the madness that enveloped Paris. I settled in Domrémy, and stayed in her old house, praying to a god I wasn't so sure existed anymore.

Time passed and I grew to believe that perhaps I wouldn't be found. But, one day, when I was in church, the doors opened, and I turned around to see those familiar, fierce green eyes flashing at me, so tired with history, but still sharp.

"Dear lord," he muttered, and in a moment was rushing to my side. "What the hell happened to you?" He revealed a handkerchief and dabbed away at the tears I didn't know were there. I was always crying, I didn't feel it anymore.

And it was in that moment, I felt comfort. Arthur was here. He wouldn't die. He's one of the few countries that has known me my whole life, and he's here. Someone who wouldn't go away anytime soon. With that thought ricocheting from my head to my heart, I latched onto him for dear life and cried into his chest.

"F-Francis? What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" He stuttered adamantly, as he hesitantly returned the embrace, comforting me with light hands.

Unknowingly, I blurted my feelings, "Everybody's dying again, Arthur. Why does everyone keep dying?" I hadn't meant to call him by his human name aloud, but it slipped out in the moment, and it might have been a combination of that and my confession that softened his voice.

He sighed, shifting his fingers to comb through my hair. "You stupid wanker. You're too romantic for your own good," he said. Minutes passed, and he added, "That was how I knew where to find you though. I had a suspicion you might come here."

My cries had quieted down, but I held on and listened to his heartbeat. Steady and unchanging.

"You need to go back, you know. You can't hide away forever. The revolution's almost ending, you need to be there."

"Another end," I mumbled sadly, initiating another wave of cries in the process.

Arthur's heartbeat picked up in surprise. "What now?" He stopped and waited for my body to stop quivering. "Oh, Francis. What am I going to do with you?"

I sniffled and closed my eyes.

"Perhaps you should try spending more time with other countries," he suggested lightly.

Somehow I manage to ask, "Like who?"

"Well, there's that goofball Spain. You two seem to get along. And then there's that rambunctious German-speaking fellow, Prussia."

"…I suppose."

He was silent. "A-and, there's always me. If you like."

That was a surprise. But a good one, and somehow I managed to cry again.

Arthur misinterpreted and tensed when he noticed. "Bloody hell, what did I say now?"

"Thank you,_ Agleterre_," I said, and tightened my grip. "Really, thank you."

He patted my back awkwardly. "It's nothing, Francis. Now just pull yourself together. You know I'm not comfortable with this."

I laughed, and my chest felt full with happiness and hope that things might get better.

And they did, for a while. History's always been that way, ups and downs, repetitions and old grudges, and each time, somehow I'm surprised. I live in the moment too long, and once I'm comfortable, a new war starts, a new emperor, a new Napoleon, a new republic, and time moves so fast, it's hard to keep track.

The years blended together in a daze. I didn't know who I was following at times, the government, the people, an emperor, the country was too confusing. I took Arthur's advice and spent time with Antonio and Gilbert, having occasional fun between scandals and uprisings. Those two also seemed to float along without pain. Gilbert was youthful, and hardheaded so I suppose not much got through there, but Antonio was accepting and easy-living, so none of the things that affected me appeared to hurt them as much, or even at all.

Arthur appeared to read me better than anyone else, for better and for worse. Just as I was emerging from my longtime trance into a greater, more vibrant time, Arthur would be there, skeptical and watchful as ever.

"Francis…" he warned one day. I'd been gossiping to Italy and Romano about the new and daring Impressionists that had emerged, and how they've been growing more popular despite the critique from the Académie. Arthur had overheard and was glaring at me meaningfully.

I waved my hand airily. "You misunderstand me, _Angleterre_. I was only sharing a story. You're too quick to judge."

He raised an eyebrow at me and didn't say anything more. Somehow, that was worse for me, and it made it harder to keep smiling.

But I managed, and I finished the story.

It was a fabulous time for everyone. So many things were happening. Art was experiencing a new revolution, and I was able to meet Monet, Renoir, Degas, Cassatt, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Seurat, Cezanne, Gauguin, Van Gogh. The Moulin Rouge was spectacular. Electricity was everywhere. More people were stepping up, talking, deliberating, making their voice heard. I loved it.

The Belle Époque was next. I might have been happiest then. France was really at its best, along with the rest of the world. Auguste Escoffier and Hôtel Ritz were teaching Arthur a thing or two about French cuisine, and though he argued, he still listened closely. There was excellent Champagne at last. It's hard to imagine I went through life without it for so long.

And there were trains, automobiles, photography, telephones, and music that just seemed to get better every time. I still remember Debussy, Stravinsky, Boulanger, and the first time I heard their compositions.

Everyone was dancing, living, loving, laughing, I wasn't the only one. Arthur smiled sometimes, Antonio finally cheered up after Romano's independence, Roderich and Elizaveta were doing splendidly together, and Gilbert…well, he was making arrogant comments about the Franco-Prussian war. But all the same, we still got along. Living in Europe was wonderful.

Then Archduke Franz Ferdinand was killed.

I was visiting England at the time I heard of it. It was the mid-afternoon, Arthur was absorbed in his newspaper as I tried to tell him all about the latest opera I attended.

He said, "Oh dear."

I thought perhaps he was making fun of the opera, he often did so.

"It seems like Ferdinand has just been killed," he clarified, and lowered the paper to look at me. It was that same look: steely green eyes and a firm frown.

Inside, my heart had already stopped. I knew what that meant. But I sighed dramatically and waved my hand. "Oh, poor Austria. What is he to do now? I hope this doesn't make a mess of things."

Arthur didn't even try to pretend for me. "I'm afraid it will, Francis. Good things hardly last forever."

I smiled and drank more tea, and quickly changed the subject.

Arthur was right, of course. He's always right about these matters. But even someone like me expected there to be war, I just didn't expect it to come so quickly, and so terribly.

Before I knew it everything was falling apart. Art, poetry, music were all thrown to the wayside. War was what mattered again, and I thought maybe I would fall back into routine, and become numb to the events. But no. This war was worse than anything else. It wasn't just my men who were dying, it was everyone's. I couldn't read any paper without hearing the death toll, listen to any official without them informing me of our current number of soldiers, or any leader without them bragging or crying about our progress. War was everywhere.

Arthur, and dare I say it Russia, were kind enough to help me along, and I tried to fight for them and be there. But after a while I just couldn't. I don't know how everyone else does it: to live on when hundreds, thousands of their people are dying everyday. Arthur in particular. It never seemed to bother him. He might look more serious one day, and snap more than usual, but there was never any sadness or weakness in his eyes, he was always able to face what was coming.

Even the Western front. That seemed endless to me. I can't even remember how long it was. I just remember all of the announcements. Germany moving into Belgium, Arthur stepping into save her, Matthew volunteering, Australia, America…more and more people were appearing at the scene, but they all just kept dying. I hated it. I hated it all. The gas, the bombs, the planes, the guns. There's nothing beautiful about war. There's no good in it. I don't know how the same people who made songs and dance could pick up a gun and destroy it all.

At some point during the fighting, I gave up.

I was locked away in a room at Versailles, and all I did was try to die once and for all. There were pills, poisons, ropes, water…I thought about shooting myself, but I'd heard so many gunshots, the sound alone haunted me. I just couldn't. But the rest of it worked for a time. I took too many pills and I would wake up the next day and have coffee and a croissant. Too much arsenic, about the same. Ropes lasted longer. I was dead until someone eventually found me. I didn't like the feeling afterward though. My body healed fine, eventually, but I couldn't talk for days.

Drowning myself was nostalgic, but it didn't work much better. Depending on how I did it, I either woke up by myself, floating at the top of my tub, or by someone else, who had to physically drag me out of it.

At that point, people tried to comfort me. They reassured me over and over again that the war was almost over. The Germans were almost defeated, and we were so close. I couldn't even laugh at them anymore. The war ending doesn't seem like a victory anymore. It's just the end of years of loss.

So one night, I tried it again.

I locked every door, every window, I even bribed the guards to not let anyone in – at least for a week. Then I took my knife and slit my wrists again, vertically up to the elbow. I was able to savor how slow it was this time. Everything was quiet, cold, and dark. I wondered if I would one day see Jeanne again. If I would see them all again. And that's what I dreamed of as I died. Perhaps one day God would let me join everybody in heaven, maybe even let me visit hell: I know plenty of friends there too. To see them all again, it would be wonderful.

"Francis."

Oh.

"Francis, you idiot, what have you done now?"

The war must be over then. That's the only reason he'd be here.

"Francis, by God, if you don't wake up this instant I'm going to shatter every piece of glass in the Hall of Mirrors."

Was he actually worried I died? He knows there's no way I can, right?

"Francis!"

My eyelashes fluttered open on command, hazily taking in the face directly in front of me. It was Arthur, of course. But he was different this time. His hair a mess, his skin sickly pale and shiny with sweat, but his eyes were what scared me. They weren't strong, they weren't hard, they seemed frazzled, confused, tired, even…afraid.

That was something I didn't like to see. So I asked him, "What's wrong?"

His eyes widened, and his eyebrows shot down. "What's wrong? What the hell kind of question is that you blasted wanker?"

I didn't answer and looked around instead. I wasn't in my bed, I was still on the floor, surrounded my blood. Arthur tried to pull me up and rested me against the wall. His hands were shaking, and after I was settled, he quickly snapped to his feet and started pacing around the room. I assumed he was stressed. He paces when he's stressed.

"So," I coughed, glancing morosely at my arms. He'd already stitched the skin back together. "How's the war?"

He stopped, and turned to me, now he was furious. "How's the war? The war's over, Francis. It's been over for days."

"Really?" I sighed. It's not as if the news really lifted my heart.

"Yes, really," he said evenly.

"Then why do you look so…" I gave him a onceover questioningly. I didn't understand his condition. Even war wasn't able to mess with his uniform.

At that, his fair skin reddened in anger. "Why do I look like a bloody mess? Use your brain for once, Francis! I thought you were dead!"

My forehead puckered in confusion. "Dead? But you know I can't actually die."

"No, I don't! No one knows! Especially now," he emphasized. "This war has ruined everybody. You're so weak. I don't know everything. You have no idea how terrified I am one of these little stunts you pull is going to work one day." He paused and took a few deep breaths. "We're not immortal, Francis. We're as alive or dead as our countries and vice-versa. What do you think would happen to France if you finally manage to off yourself?"

Slowly, I try to answer, "Perhaps a new France would be bor –"

"No! You can't just assume that. What if you're it? What if when you die, France ends. Maybe the Germans take it, or me, or the Netherlands, or whoever," he walked closer to me. "And what the hell are we going to do if you die? What the hell am_ I_ going to do?"

"You'd be fine," I said quietly, though I didn't sound as sure as I thought I was.

"You bloody, dense git," he muttered, and covered his face with his hands. Slowly he wiped them away and looked at me again, his eyes sad. "No, I wouldn't. I'm not like you, Francis. I don't get attached to humans. I don't want to. Instead, I grow fond of countries, because I think they'll continue being there. They're dependable. But I'm not a sociable man. You're one of the only ones I…" he trailed off in a groan. It didn't seem like he wanted to finish, but talking about feelings was never one of his strong suits.

I watched him levelly. "So what do you want me to do?"

His eyes flashed to mine and he knelt down before me. "Just…be here. Please. Everyone needs you. _I_ need you."

"For how long?" I asked, more in wonder than curiosity.

It didn't take him more than a second to answer. "Forever."

I exhaled, sad and happy at the same time. The prospect of enduring this for eternity was terrible. But…

I glanced at Arthur's trembling, pleading face, perhaps more mortal than ever before. If I died I might never see him again, why have I never thought of that? I might never see Gilbert, or Antonio, or Italy or Romano.

Arthur gripped my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. I almost gasped in surprise, this is so unlike him.

"Please, Francis. I can't keep doing this without you."

Oh, Arthur. How do you expect me to keep laughing? To keep going on as people keep dying, in peacetime and war. It seems so impossible. I'll always grow attached. I'll always cry. I don't know if I can. I can't. I can't. I really can't do it.

But somehow, I still say, "Alright."

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><p><em>Yeah...I was sad, so I wrote something as equally sad. This is in part inspired by my studies as an Art History major and History minor, I've always had an unnatural attachment to France, but I didn't do any additional research to write this so it's all rather rough and flowy. At the same time, this is based off of a headcanon of mine, where I like to think Francis associates himself with most of his people. Aw, I love Francis too much.<em>

_Anyway, I hope this was worth reading. If you leave a review, that would be absolutely wonderful :) Thank you._


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